Giving In
by CracksinthePavement
Summary: Words can hurt, hands can kill, but the most dangerous part of the body is the mind. What happens when IY looses control of his inner demon? Oneshot


Giving In  
  
* *  
  
Waves. Giant waves were threatening to overcome him and he was helpless to stop them. Something was. . . he was fighting something. He was locked in a battle but he was losing strength and he wasn't sure what else he could draw energy from. And then there was a calling as deadly and sweet as a sirens song.  
  
He tried to fight it. The rush. The heat. But it was like trying to go against his entire being, everything within him wanted to let go, to have a release. And then, he forgot why he was fighting it in the first place. He remembered a voice, a small voice in the back of his mind, but it was overridden by another, more stronger one. And then all doubt was gone from his mind, all expectations disappeared. The only thing that mattered was what he was he felt.  
  
He was swimming in sensations that rivaled any good feeling he had ever experienced. It wasn't a warm feeling of love or belonging that made him feel content, it was a feeling of hot fire that seemed to explode somewhere within him and left him sweaty and panting. Left him feeling like he had done something forbidden and exciting.  
  
What was this feeling?  
  
He felt so energized and renewed, like nothing could bring him down, nothing could stop him. He felt so powerful that mortal and demons alike would be backing away in alarm and lowering their eyes in fright. There was such a strong blast of adrenaline that singed his veins and made his eyes roll.  
  
God, it felt amazing. It felt like sex; wild and blinding, white hot and searing. Had never felt so alive. He was out of control and he didn't care, for once he could just leave his head behind, leave morals and obligations alone. All the guilt and betrayal he had been feeling ever since he was released from his eternal prison on the damn tree dissolved. He didn't know where it went and he didn't care. His head was swirling, he had long ago lost any reason and no coherent thought could be processed.  
  
There were so many colors, the most vivid being red. But that was all right, he liked red. Red meant things were real. Red meant his problems could be taken care of. Red meant he was living in a world where nothing had to be permanent.  
  
Of course it couldn't last forever. After an undetermined amount of time, the feeling dissipated and the only thing he could do was breath.  
  
Molten heat tickled down his arms and pooled in his hands. The feeling had ceased and he was left feeling drained. What kind of dream was that? What kind of dream gave him so much power and left him feeling lethargic but satisfied? He regretfully opened his eyes to face to bright morning and after a moment the realness came back and he had control of his senses. He sniffed the morning air and immediately cringed in disgust when the copper stench wafted past him. A battle had taken place that night. He attuned his nose and sniffed again. Humans were killed.  
  
At first he didn't find it odd that he had not been awoken by the noise of battle, but then he tried to pick himself off the ground and immediately took notice to the sticky feeling on his hands.  
  
He blinked the confusion out of his eyes and looked down. There was blood, a lot of blood. It was almost hard to tell because it blended in so well with his clothes. He lifted the sleeves and found his skin was covered in red welts and scratches. Was the blood his? He didn't think so. Although his cuts were already healing, they were to minor to have caused so much blood. It wasn't his; it smelt human. It smelt. . .  
  
He moved from his resting spot on the ground. He didn't have to travel far before he came upon the bloody mass of bodies.  
  
Oh God.  
  
He looked down at his hands again in disbelief. There was so much blood; even the world's largest river would fail to remove the stains from the ground, from his hands. Had he done this? He couldn't remember a thing. He must have done it again, he must have lost control, and like the weakling he was, had given into the calling easily. How could he rid the world of a monster, of Naraku, when he couldn't even keep his own at bay? It had to be an illusion, just another one of Naraku's tricks to bring him down. Just like Kikyou, just like. . .  
  
He was panting so hard, there wasn't enough air to keep him up and he stumbled over the roots and branches until he came across the heap on the ground.  
  
Seeing the weapons on the ground, the bloody fingernails, he realize they were the same instruments that left the cuts and scratches on his skin when they were used defensively against him.  
  
He saw the puzzle pieces lying on the ground, but he was so afraid to put them together. He was terrified to find that he had killed the most important person to him in the entire world.  
  
And like the aftermath of every gruesome battle, silence stilled the air. There were no cries of victory, no cries of the wounded, no cries of anything. The field was thick with death, only a small whisper strong enough to break through its walls.  
  
". . . Kagome. . ." 


End file.
